


Bottle Up and Explode!

by smokingbomber



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Crack, Dark, Fluff, Multi, One Shot Collection, Smut, Tumblr Prompt, Unexplained Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:25:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9567356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokingbomber/pseuds/smokingbomber
Summary: February 1st fic prompts on smokingbomber@tumblr.





	1. Formal: Zoisite/Mamoru

**Author's Note:**

> for @ree-fireparrot

Zoisite straightened his prince's tie, frowning slightly. "Hold still. You being too tall really isn't helping this any."

"I don't see why I can't just henshin and ditch the mask and cape," Mamoru complained, eyes sliding away from the green-eyed boy in front of him; he shifted his weight and scowled at the currently-offensive closet door.

"Because," Zoisite said patiently, his hands letting go the tie and smoothing down Mamoru's lapels, then pausing there on his chest, "Usagi's going home with Ami afterwards."

The prince decided to be difficult because he was annoyed he'd already started blushing. "I don't see what that has to do with literally making me wear the exact same clothes I can magically swap out of for jeans and a t-shirt, but that take half an hour of fussing to put on the normal way."

Zoisite hummed a little, one corner of his mouth curling up, and he glanced up at Mamoru again -- this time from beneath long eyelashes. He didn't say anything else.

 

\-----@@@-----

 

The benefit concert and wine and cheese thing afterwards had honestly been an arduous affair, hours and hours long; Mamoru couldn't even remember what it was for, at this point. He was altogether too tired and too irritated, and he'd spent the entire evening concentrating on not getting his mood on Usagi. Miraculously, it had even worked. She knew he didn't like them, but he didn't infect her with his own crankiness.

That, he thought as he started jerking at his now hideously-uncomfortable formalwear, was the one silver lining--

And then there were hands slipping over his shoulders from the back, to catch at his and still them. Mamoru paused, waiting, and then Zoisite's breath was hot against his ear. One of his guardian's hands moved to slide his neck badge around and tug, ever so slightly, putting pressure on Mamoru's throat. Again, he was already blushing, but this time, his breath caught and his heart beat hard in his chest, pulse dancing against Zoisite's fingertips.

"My prince," came the hum of the strawberry blonde's mischievously sultry voice, a vibration he could feel in the base of his skull. "Usagi's gone home with Ami, and you're wearing things I can remove for you."


	2. Capitulate #1: Mako/Neph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @joiedecombat

“Nooooo,” laughed Makoto, “no you _can’t_.”

“But the cookie dough is just as good as the cookies,” Nephrite protested, looking almost pitiful with his hand caught over the mixing bowl– that hand caught firmly by Mako’s, gripping his wrist.

She smirked up at him. “I will not capitulate,” she told him, eyes flashing in amusement and challenge.

Nephrite glanced down at where her hand, covered in the cookie dough she’d been mixing, had already gotten goop all over his wrist, and he got a very sly look. He grabbed her wrist with his other hand, raising the grippy tangle slowly to his mouth.

Makoto’s eyes widened, blush spreading over her pretty face; she was unable to do anything but stare, open-mouthed, as he began deliberately licking the dough off her hand.

“Y-you–” she sputtered, and his reddish brown eyes glanced up to lock with hers under the shadow of his glossy hair. He smirked, giving one long lick up the inside of her wrist into her palm, then detached her hand from his wrist to continue up to her fingers, sucking on each one delicately to get every last bit of dough off them.

While her eyes were on him, the hand he’d freed reached into the bowl and he sank his fingers in, stealing a big handful of dough. And then he moved her licked-all-over hand away from his face to lean in and kiss her, full and deep, mouth tasting like cookie dough, and he backed her against the counter–

–then deliberately mashed her licked hand into the rest of the cookie dough in the bowl. She squawked into his kiss, arching away from the counter to push him back off her with her stomach. “YOU CHEAT!” she yelped, and pulled her hand out of the dough and immediately dragged it down his gleefully laughing face.

That was when Neph jammed most of his fistful of stolen cookie dough into his mouth, and turned his hand around to mash what was left onto Makoto’s face and throat.

Her squeal of outrage was accompanied by the solid thump of her fist to one side of his chest, and he sputtered and almost choked on the dough, laughing all the more. In righteous indignation, she grabbed the collar of his shirt in both fists and marched him across the kitchen to crash against the opposite counter, her eyes a little wild and a lot promising. She leaned up against him on tiptoes to growl against his ear, “You are going to pay me for a whole batch of cookies now, good sir, and it is going to be _very creative_.”

His answer was to swallow, then duck his head to start cleaning off her neck with his tongue– and nibble off chocolate chips– and nibble at her skin– and his dough-free hand slid around her waist and down into the waistband of her pants, starting to tug at it. “Mmm,” he murmured against her throat, and she was blushing all over again, “you taste like cookies today. I think I can be creative enough for five batches.”

Mako couldn’t bring herself to mind how much of a mess the kitchen would be.


	3. Fever: Usa/Mamo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @usangie-tsukino; here be light smut.

“Everything hurrrts, Mamo-chan,” came Usagi’s voice, very tiny, from underneath a small mountain of blankets which she was in the process of fitfully kicking off.

Mamoru came back over with a glass of water and more tylenol, hurting for his wife, but determinedly keeping at least part of his doctor mindset at the forefront. Part of it. She’d looked so pitifully at him when he came in wearing a surgical mask that he’d had to sigh and take it off.

He pulled up the sheet and one of the blankets again, and she pouted. “Too hot,” she complained, and he sighed again and pulled them back down after putting the water on the nightstand. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he helped her sit up and put the tylenol in her hand, then reached over to get the glass again, and waited patiently for her to take the medicine.

It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, that he wished his healing powers worked on viruses – but at least, touching her, he could take away the aching in her joints and soothe the inflammation; he could wash away her pain in a flood of gold until the tylenol kicked back in.

She finished the water and he put the glass back on the nightstand, and suddenly she was clutching at his shirt. He glanced down in surprise, and there was a very distinct light in her eyes–

“…Usa is not going to feel better later,” he murmured against her too-hot temple, bending his head to press his lips to it in a light kiss.

She wriggled up closer and purred into his neck, “Mamo-chan can make me feel better now…”

The third sigh in almost as many minutes, and Mamoru told her grumpily, “You’re so spoiled.” It didn’t stop him, though, and he slid his free hand up to trail cool fingers against the side of her neck, then push her already-unbuttoned pajama top back, slipping it off her shoulders.

She lifted one hot little hand up to cup the side of his face, maintaining contact with him as he pulled her top off and lifted her heavy braid away, letting it fall to coil beside her on the wrinkled sheets. “Usa is very, very lucky that I had my flu shot this year,” he said chidingly, lowering her back down as she reached her other hand up, patting the sides of his face and enjoying the cooled sheets beneath her.

“Usa is,” she agreed, pleased and smiling up at him.

Mamoru growled softly as he leaned over her, one hand ghosting a trail down from her collarbone and between her breasts, and the other tugging down her pajama pants and underwear. “Usa is also so very missing the point,” he scolded her. “If I can make myself cope with getting shots, you have zero excuse.”

“Growl again, Mamo-chan, it’s very sexy,” Usagi told him with a grin, reaching up to unbutton his shirt.

He blushed and scowled, catching both her hands in one of his for a second, then bent down over her to nip at her throat and let go of them. “Distracting your doctor from a lecture on your health. You’re making me act so unprofessionally,” he said against her skin as her hands fumbled with his buttons, and while one of his hands braced himself against the bed, the other began lightly teasing at her nipples, one to the other and then light against her skin and down, down, just touching.

Her breath hitched as his cool fingers traced a different kind of fire on her sensitive skin, and she shivered as she managed the last button on his shirt. “But I’m your wife,” she breathed, fingers trailing fever-hot up his chest, “I’m very unprofessional. It’s my job.”

“We are both going to be so sorry later,” Mamoru muttered, then leaned down further to kiss her as he shrugged out of his own shirt; she raked her nails gently back down his chest, skimming over his nipples. He bit her lip very lightly, then invaded her mouth demandingly as he lowered to one elbow, his other hand tracing tiny circles down from her bellybutton into the soft, downy folds of her womanhood.

She squirmed beneath him, and as his fingers reached the borders of their target, she lifted her hips in a demanding little push against his hand, mouth opening wider beneath his and imagining all sorts of fascinating images for his psychometry to pick up.

 _That_ was when he growled for her.


	4. Frontier: Makoto, Rei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @timemachineyeah

The Star Trek opening music was playing in the background, and Makoto was curled up in one corner of the couch, sulking with a tub of ice cream, and Rei was curled up in the other corner of the couch, stewing with a tub of ice cream. The latter jammed a spoonful in her mouth and scowled at the television. “If you even think, one more time, that Riker reminds you of your old senpai, I’ll–”

“Look, Riker is safe, okay, he’s fictional,” Makoto shot back. “I can crush on a fictional character and he won’t break my heart.”

“If he reminds you of your old senpai, he will,” muttered Rei after swallowing her huge mouthful. “You’ll start reading the oceans of fanfic that’ve been written since 1987 and just wail every time he and Troi refer to having dated but don’t bang.”

“Worf is much better for her,” Mako decided. “Riker can’t commit. Which is another reason he reminds me of–”

“Don’t even say it! Look, if you’re so interested in new frontiers, why not just give up on boys for a while and try girls?”

Makoto was silent, stirring her Phish Food and watching the little fudge fish swirling around in the marshmallow and chocolate and caramel.

Rei sensed a mis-step, and let it drop. She just didn’t know what to follow it with, so kept eating her own ice cream after a second.

As the screen lingered on a pensive expression on Riker’s face and the music hung on a suspended chord for a commercial break that would never come, Makoto answered quietly. “I don’t want to be the tall one.”

Rei paused, her heart breaking a little bit– but she really didn’t know what to say to cheer Mako up after that. 

And then she did.

“Well if you want a tall asshole who’s also not a boy, you could always give Taiki or Seiya a call…” she said slyly.

Makoto threw a cushion at her, and it was suddenly a lot easier for them both to watch TV.


	5. Rakish: Zoisite/Mamoru

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CT Zoisite, Mamoru, 'rakish' -- for Flora

"Goodnight, Usako," mumbled Mamoru sleepily into his phone with an endless ocean of affection. He waited, then laughed a little. "I know you're not going to bed. I love you too. I have to sleep..."

Waiting again -- she'd be hurt if he hung up first -- he finally heard the call disconnect on her end, then let his phone drop to the mattress beside his pillow. The tiny single he'd scored in Kirkland House didn't feel so empty when she called, even if he had to make himself stay up until one in the morning so she could catch him when she got out of school.

He'd managed to transfer rather than having to do his entire freshman year all over again; there was an absurd -- almost suspicious -- level of accommodation they'd given him, for all that he'd disappeared off the face of the earth for six months and then jammed a year's worth of classes into a semester and three short summer sessions back in Tokyo. He wasn't entirely sure how the entire mess had even worked, but suspected Setsuna of having friends in high places.

And somehow he even got a single.

And somehow, even if he'd been sleepy less than a minute ago, Mamoru was wide awake again-- wide awake and uneasy. He could sense magic somewhere nearby, sharp and clear to his starved senses; it wasn't dark, it wasn't a youma, but it could still be some kind of enemy. His fingers curled into his sheets and he stared, unseeing, at the dark ceiling. 

Abruptly, Mamoru sat up in bed and swung his feet over the side, standing up and reaching out with his heightened magical sense; the feeling was growing, and if he could pinpoint it--

The door opened, and he threw up his hand to shade his eyes from the hallway's light. An open door, he couldn't help thinking, was terribly anticlimactic, even if it /had/ been locked. Even more mundanely, the person who opened it -- the silhouette was short and slim with wavy long hair -- actually closed it again after coming inside. 

Mamoru's night vision was shot, and there were still stars dancing in his eyes as the person approached; he backed up and fell backwards over the end of his bed, then leapt to his feet with the window behind him, hair sticking up amazingly rakishly for what should honestly just have been unappealing bedhead. "What do you want? Who are you?" he demanded, hastily adopting a defensive stance.

"Endy--?" came a heartbreakingly familiar voice, sounding baffled. "It's me, what are you even-- why are you sleeping in a closet?"

A voice that belonged to a rock sitting on his nightstand.

Mamoru reached out with his soul, this time, looking for the connections he had -- like the strings of fate -- to the souls locked in the gems he'd taken with him, the souls which slept more and more often, only speaking with him when he called. 

The connection to Zoisite was there, still. But the thread was split, and it gave him the promise of an immense headache if he tried to do anything more than glance at it.

"What-- how--?" the prince stammered uncomprehendingly. His head turned from the figure to the rocks, and then back to the figure, and he willed his sight to recover. After a half second, he could see a little better, and the figure was still approaching him. Was approaching and was definitely Zoisite, no question. Mamoru's eyes widened, and he froze in his tracks.

"--oh," said Zoisite, also stopping, and then again and more emphatically, "/oh/." And then there was an unmistakable grin in his voice, full of mischief. "Ara~!"

All of a sudden, the nineteen-year-old found himself being pressed back against the strip of wall next to the window and kissed insistently by a man half a head shorter than himself, the sharp rich scent of some kind of flower that somehow shared characteristics with caramel filling his nose. He flailed for a second, then took Zoisite's shoulders and pushed him back, blushing furiously. "Are you /kidding/ me? You feel like you're really you, but if you're really you then you /know/ I have a girlfriend, and you /know/ she's so jealous she was even jealous of Chibiusa--" he gasped, looking down and finally seeing bright green eyes in the light from the street outside.

"--and you /know/ she gets to have all /kinds/ of fun with her girls while you pine away in your little dorm on the other side of the world," said Zoisite, reaching up a delicate hand to lightly trace down the side of Mamoru's face, then land with fingertips on his prince's lips. He was smirking, but there was something behind his eyes that looked incredibly indignant -- and aching -- on Mamoru's behalf. 

"I'm not interested in anyone but her!" Mamoru protested defensively, taking Zoisite's wrist and pulling the hand away from his mouth-- but he was blushing, and Zoisite was still pressed against him, back arched so he could lean back to look up, and Zoisite could tell the blood wasn't rushing /just/ to Mamoru's face.

"No," Zoisite practically purred, his other hand trailing up Mamoru's bare chest to curl around the back of his neck and slip fingers into the taller boy's short black hair. "You're not interested in anyone you've met here on campus. And you're not generally interested, in fact, in anyone you're not already connected to, here--"

Like quicksilver, Zoisite's wrist practically melted from Mamoru's grasp and his hand came up to touch at Mamoru's temple. "Or here." And the hand came down again to lay flat against Mamoru's heart-- no, not heart. The place where they both knew a brilliantly shining crystal lived, warm and golden, and full of the sense of home that everyone on Earth would instinctively know if they felt its power healing them. 

Mamoru's back was getting cold against the window, and Zoisite was like fire in front of him, hypnotic and burning hot, always moving even when stationary. Blue eyes locked on green, and the next protest died unspoken as Zoisite let his hand fall from Mamoru's chest, then gently took Mamoru's own hand and delicately placed the tip of one of his fingers between his lips. It was mostly a kiss, but there was the barest flicker of Zoisite's tongue against the very tip, and then the strawberry blond guardian smiled around it and let go of Mamoru's hand.

It took a second before Mamoru remembered to move his hand away, and in that second, Zoisite pressed himself harder against Mamoru's hips, a slow and teasing motion upwards that was /almost/ a grind, /almost/.

Mamoru sucked in a breath, sharp and quick, and then released a puff of it between his teeth. Not quite a hiss. "I-- I think-- that's called demisexuality--" he managed, the words sort of falling out of his mouth. "And-- how the hell-- how the /hell/ would you know, you've been a /rock/ for three years--!"

Zoisite leaned in, and his breath against Mamoru's collarbone was the start of a brushfire, lightning against dried foliage and naked twigs. Mamoru could feel his closeness everywhere, not just where erection insistently pressed against erection, with trousers and pajama bottoms in between. When Zoisite's mouth landed against his skin, Mamoru could feel it in every nerve, and he couldn't--

No, he could make him stop. He could make himself make Zoisite stop. The fact that he hadn't already was evidence that he didn't /want/ to. 

As he came to that realization, his empathy could taste something else in Zoisite's emotion surface: the strange assuaging of a very, very, very old guilt, and the rapid birth of a new one to replace it. 

That was what finally made Mamoru shake himself out of it enough to put the brakes on. He roughly took Zoisite's shoulders and pushed him back, then further back, arms' length. He kept going, pushing the shorter boy toward the bed, then down to sit on it. His face was red and he was flustered and the evidence of his arousal was still quite apparent in his pajamas, but he stood far enough away from Zoisite that Zoi wouldn't take that as an invitation. Yet.

"No. Usa and I didn't discuss this. Not okay." He crossed his arms and scowled at the prettiest of his Shitennou. "Yes, you caught me, you're beautiful and I want you, in addition to loving you with everything I've got-- just like I love the other guys-- just like I love Usa. But that doesn't mean I get to cheat on her with you."

He took a deep breath. "So-- first you're going to tell me how you're sitting on my bed and on my nightstand at the same time, and then you're going to tell me why getting me hot and bothered made you stop feeling guilty and then made you feel guilty about something else, and then you're going to tell me the BIG THING you're not telling me, and then -- if what you tell me washes -- I am going to call Usa back and tell her you're here and trying to get in my pants and ask her if that's okay."

Zoisite pouted, crossing his own arms in mirror image to Mamoru's, and scowled right back. "You are literally no fun."

"I'm a /lot/ of fun," said Mamoru pointedly, "on /my terms/."

The pretty, pretty boy on Mamoru's bed sighed deeply, slouching in defeat. "I'm from Crystal Tokyo," he said in a low voice, turning his face away. "We all feel guilty you stuck it out alone this whole time at Harvard, so you even starting to-- the idea that I could maybe lessen that, just a little?" Suddenly he was looking up at Mamoru again, his eyes shining bright and sorrowful and hopeful, all at once. "That's the relief. The guilt is that the other guys aren't in on it. And I honestly have no idea how I'm here, I legitimately thought I was going into your-- I mean King Endymion's-- closet to pick out an outfit for him to wear into town, we were going to go out undercover..."

Mamoru stared. He couldn't stop staring, and he wasn't sure what was up with his heart, but it was definitely beating too fast and too hard, and he felt faint, and he felt so much hope all at once that he could taste it in his mouth and feel it singing through his blood, and his eyes stung and Zoisite looked blurry, there in the semi-dark. He opened his mouth to say something, dimly aware that he /should/, but he couldn't make the words come.

They'd be alive again. They were going to be alive again. He would have them back for real, he would have them /back/, he would be able to touch them, to hold them, to know they were there-- he would be able to let them hold him, he would be able to fall apart on someone it wouldn't /break/.

He took in a shuddering breath instead, and came over to put his hand on the side of Zoisite's face, and then bent to kiss the top of that bright-haired head. 

It took him a couple of tries to pick up his phone after he went around to the other side of the bed, and deciding that precautionary measures were the things that saved phone replacement costs, sat down to call Usagi.

"...yeah," he said into the phone, hands and voice both shaky. "Yeah I'm fine. I just-- Usa. Zoisite's here--" 

A pause, and he vehemently shook his head. "No, really here. I mean his gem too, but he's really really here. From Crystal Tokyo. ... yeah, I don't know if they hid or what. ... no, he doesn't know how he got here. ... no, it's-- Usa-- he knows about you and the girls, he wants to-- ... yeah. ... yes. Is that-- is that okay?" 

An instant later, Zoisite could /feel/ as much as see the tension rush out of Mamoru. 

"... really? I'm sorry, I-- ... okay, okay, I'm not sorry, fine! I just-- thank you... no, I /do/, I /do/ need to-- you know nothing could-- ... oh my god, Usako, she is? I'm going to die. ... /Minako you're noisy!/ Yes fine go away! Tell her I-- OKAY ALREADY!" 

Mamoru did not throw the phone. He /did/ very vehemently press 'end call' and then turn the ringer off and jam it in the drawer of his nightstand.

Then he sat there with his face burning in his hands, hunched over, really not okay with the tsunami of mutually exclusive and equally emphatic emotions warring over his physiology.

He could feel the bed moving, could feel Zoisite creeping across it toward him; a second later, he felt Zoisite's arms around him, gathering him close and somewhat awkwardly letting him attempt to vanish inside the embrace. He was too tall for Zoi to envelop efficiently, but it didn't matter. 

He could also feel Zoisite's forgiveness when he started just crying unsexily, years of pent-up feelings finally releasing themselves into the care of his knight--

After all, what he needed at that moment was healing and purification.

The needs of his trousers could wait a little longer.


	6. Target: Usagi, Kunzite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @sunreddreamer

“But I can hit it with a frisbee! Or Moon Tiara–”

Kunzite swiftly held one of Makoto’s famed anpan in front of Usagi’s face, and she stopped activating her attack instantly, chomping it out of his hand.

He dragged his hand down his face. “And what if you’re not in henshin? And what if your tiara breaks? I’ve heard you’ve broken it before.”

With her mouth full, Usagi answered as she crouched down to pick up another shotput. “Ahw famb uh hahwvee pah pih.”

“I don’t speak Anpan.”

Usagi glared at Kunzite and swallowed laboriously. “I’ll find a handy pie tin,” she pointed out. “It worked in Back to the Future Part Three. Come on, V-chan never made me do all this…”

“Yes. She told me to because she can’t avoid coddling you. You can try with something lighter, but you’re going to have to work up to this weight.”

“Mou...”


	7. Rakish pt 2: Mamoru/CT Zoisite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well this one kept going

Zoisite just held him, rocking him now and then, sharp elfin chin resting lightly atop the mussed black hair of his prince’s ducked head. He was quiet for a while, letting Mamoru exhaust the storm of emotion; when the third round started petering off, he murmured softly, “I’m sorry I came on so strong. You– your future self didn’t tell me you and the Queen hadn’t made an agreement yet, but I really should have put it together… there’s not a lot of fun to be had with a box of rocks, is there?”

Mamoru sniffled, undignified, and then his voice came muffled out of Zoisite’s uniform jacket. “Well I always thought you guys looked like candy. Sometimes–” there was a soggy little laugh “–I’m tempted to just put you all in my mouth. Your stones are so pretty…”

Zoisite glanced over at the box on the nightstand, suddenly glad it was closed. Or maybe sorry. He’d’ve paid cash money to know what Nephrite thought of what the prince had just said.

“Sharp candy,” he said with a small, quiet laugh. “I imagine we’d’ve tasted like rocks and everyone would have ended up fairly frustrated.” A beat, and he considered keeping his mouth shut, but it was a short consideration. His voice got lower. “And I don’t think we’d /all/ fit in your mouth, where I’m from.”

Zoisite was half delighted and half chagrined when Mamoru blushed all over again, hard enough that he could see the reddening of his ears and the back of his neck even in the half-light from the street outside. He rubbed Mamoru’s back comfortingly. “Sorry.”

Another soggy laugh, and Mamoru straightened up a little, then paused, and then straightened up the rest of the way. His face was salty and puffy, but all Zoisite could think of was how young he looked behind his eyes, and how beautiful he was. And then the Prince’s hand came up hesitantly, fingertips lightly touching the side of his future guardian’s face, and Zoisite found himself being studied–

–and the light touch on his mind told him that it wasn’t just his face being studied, and Zoisite opened himself up for Mamoru to see: love, first and foremost, deep and unshakable and firm; unending gratitude, both for Mamoru’s existence at all and for his willingness to have forgiven them, even so long ago as it was from the perspective of the thirtieth century – combined with the determination to be worthy of that forgiveness and trust; mischief, always, except when it mingled with regret that occasionally eclipsed it; a sinful delight in Mamoru’s relative lack of experience; a protectiveness that went far beyond anything rational; unrelenting desire.

And tear-streaked face and all, Mamoru leaned in with his fingers trailing to Zoisite’s chin and lifting it, and he kissed the bright-haired man who was holding him, who would hold him always if he could.

It was tentative, a taste– but Zoisite opened his mouth beneath Mamoru’s, inviting the exploration; a moment later, as Mamoru grew more bold, Zoisite lifted his hand to rake his fingers up into Mamoru’s hair and held his head in place, beginning to delve into his Prince’s mouth with his tongue and explore in turn. He still wondered if it was all right, and then there– /there/– was the bright laugh in Endymion’s heart that he knew so well.

The prince detached a little, pressing his forehead against Zoisite’s for the leverage against the hand at the back of his head and neck, and murmured against Zoisite’s lips, “You know I’d stop you again if it weren’t. If it weren’t okay.”

That was the point at which Zoisite grinned and gently pushed Mamoru down, down, back against his pillows, using his body as the weight to keep him there; he was encouraged by the growing result already beginning to make itself known, pressing into his hip. He didn’t tease; this boy was still tentative and fragile. Instead, he obliged the prince’s unspoken wish to be directed, wish to avoid being in charge, wish to avoid being a decision-maker.

Zoisite wriggled his way around until he was fully on top of Mamoru, pinning him down, and then lowered his head to begin kissing his neck while one hand remained knotted in black hair and the other braced against the bed to Mamoru’s side. He was rewarded with Mamoru’s hands slipping up around his waist, then sliding down to cup his buttocks as the prince relaxed into the moment and began to allow himself to get lost in sensation.

Here, a little grind, hips against hips and groin against groin; when Mamoru’s hands tightened on his ass, Zoisite bit lightly at the side of Mamoru’s neck, just below his ear, and the prince bucked beneath him a little bit. He laughed softly, unthreading his fingers from Mamoru’s hair and letting his hand trail down to cup the prince’s chin. The words he was about to speak died on his lips as he looked at the youth’s flushed and still puffy face, and instead, he smiled down at him with endless affection. The unspoken promise came through the contact: ‘I’ll take care of you.’


End file.
